A Feast of Ashes
by Kalendeer
Summary: In Barad Eithel, High King Fingolfin lives under the shadow of his half-brother, dead on the very spot where the fortress was built. At the Feast of Reuniting, the ghost who haunts Fingolfin's nights somehow becomes real.
1. Prologue: White stones in a small grove

**Prologue: Whites stones in a small grove**

The small grove of trees is nondescript, with nothing but a small cluster of white stones to mark its tremendous significance. As if nothing had ever happened, will ever happen but the song of the wind in the branches of oaks and pine trees.

This is the place where Finwë Nolofinwë will build his fortress. He will close the way up the mountains and, when the day is clear, will see the peaks of his foe's fortress from the parapets. He can picture the high towers, the way he will make the Sirion River turn slightly to act as a natural barrier. He can picture, clearly, where his builders will raise a hall, barracks for his soldiers, stables for his horses. Nolofinwë is, has always been, thorough, well organized, logical.

Yet, Nolofinwë knows Barad Eithel will not be as logical as it should. He should raze the grove to the ground, cut the oaks for the doors and the pines for the ceiling of the hall. Nolofinwë knows, though, that he will not do so. That the walls will awkwardly encircle the grove as if it were something sacred to protect.

Because this is the place where Fëanaro died.

 _… and with his dying breath, his gaze turned toward Angband, he made us swear that we would never relent. Never let cowardice into our hearts, or despair disarm us. A fire wild and pure burnt in his eyes. His soul did not depart his body without a fight, and the sheer strength of his spirit burnt his shell to ashes in anger and defiance._

The walls grow higher each day, and soon the grove is enclosed by them. As he stands near the white stones of the cairn, turned toward the Thangorodrim, Nolofinwë cannot see anything but the dull, grey stones of the walls. He can picture his nephews and with them his brother, his face contorted in anger, his silver eyes turned toward Morgoth, and wonders if by blocking the view, he somehow helped Fëanaro find a kind of peace.

He considers turning the grove into a memorial for his family; for sweet Elenwë, whose body slipped into the sea; for his youngest son, Arakano, dead before the sun could warm his face. What keeps him from doing so is the feeling that, somehow, there's unfairness in that. Elenwë and Arakano died because of his brother's treachery. So the walls grow and the groves stays the same, tainted by the ashes of the peculiar death and the feeling that something is just not right.

Perhaps it's the trinkets. The Fëanorians left a few weeks ago for East Beleriand. For days and nights before their departure, women and children, soldiers and crafters wandered to the grove, leaving small gifts hanging from the branches of the trees or in the crook of their roots: painted stones, carved statuettes, treasured old ribbons floating in the wind.

 _We commemorate our parents_ , Aicahendë said. Curufin's wife. Her parents were childhood friends of Fëanaro, drowned when Uinen broke their stolen Teler ship **.** _We commemorate our friends_. Her fellow apprentices, one pierced by an arrow in Alqualondë, another one at the beginning of the Battle Under the Stars, and the last one in the mad charge that had ultimately claimed Fëanaro's life. _We commemorate our one true king, and the life we lost_.

 _Do not even think of destroying this place_.

Nolofinwë will not; not with the feeling that it is haunted. Haunted by doubts, regrets, anger, betrayal and tears.

And so the fortress grows, grows and grows, and it is never, never truly Nolofinwë's own.


	2. Chapter 1: The High King (Fingolfin)

**Irvin, twentieth year of the Sun.**

Fingolfin remembers a time when Nolofinwë loved feasts.

He remembers the great hall in his father's palace, where the mingling lights of Telperion and Laurelin bathed their feasts in silver and gold; they ate surrounded with finely-worked plates covered in leaf of precious metals, embroidered tablecloths and lavish floral arrangements. He remembers the smell of spices and the unique, delicate taste of sorbets made with rose and orange blossoms. He remembers the music, the marble floors, the sprawling gardens filled with elaborate paper lanterns; the slow, complicated dances and the subtle etiquette he spent his life mastering.

Prince Nolofinwë was a master of banquets and balls. He could steer any light conversation as he wished and convince everyone that all partygoers, no matter how boring, high or low born, deserved a share of his undisputed attention. He could brush away insults or turn them back as sharp weapons. Yes, Fingolfin could remember very few feasts in the palace that had not, at the end, ended well for Nolofinwë.

He remembers his brother Arafinwë and his wife, dancing a slow waltz of smiles and ethereal white veil as if the whole world doesn't exist. He remembers Finwë laughing in a way that warmed the whole room. He remembers Teler guests and Vanyarin relatives. He remembers the laces on his mother dress. Indis was impossible to tire as a dancer.

The memories blend into a single one. In this prized recollection of a thousand parties, Fingolfin evokes the late moment when he and Indis are the only ones still dancing, a testimony of the stamina that would later take him through the Ice; he evokes the peculiar time when Fëanaro drank too much wine and they laid down in the garden, his half-brother showing him all the stars that weren't there, but actually _were_ , if you went north enough until the light from the Trees dimed. Findekano and Maitimo switching the baubles in their hair; Tyelkormo and Curuwinfë the Younger fighting for the honor of dancing with Irissë; Turukano and Elenwë, surprised as they kiss for the first time.

Finwë's smile. Arafinwë's tales, Nerdanel's…

 _Stop_.

Fingolfin hates parties.

Fingolfin forces the thought forward. _Stop_. Wallowing in memories is starting to become a habit, one Fingolfin does not have the time to indulge.

 _Focus_.

Fingolfin wrenches himself back to Irvin; to the crude lanterns hanging from the branches of trees, worn carpets, worn clothes, worn instruments playing worn music and worn _people_ looking at him like he is more than a worn prince playing king in foreign lands he barely knows. He smiles like he is still a young and happy host, greeting group after group to the Great Feast of Reuniting, and pretends he is not afraid that Morgoth will invite himself with darkness, blood and murder.

Fingolfin feels his lips stretching automatically as yet another group of weirdly dressed, small and dull-eyed elves approaches. The delegation is led by a petite white-haired thing with a tanned complexion that reminds him of the Teleri. She looks foreign but civilized compared to the three groups of Avari before her, dressed in blue wool embroidered with abstract, wavy patterns in teal and grey. White furs and pearls adorn her neck and girl is actually wearing the correct number of layers; a welcome change from the too simple and sometimes quite revealing attires of the Avari.

The girl and her followers bow deep, hands crossed on their chests, the gestures foreign but, in some way, showing kinship to the elaborate dance of politeness of Tirion.

"Best greetings to you, High King Finwë Nolofinwë of the Noldor," she intones in thick and clumsy quenya, but _still_ : most of Fingolfin's guests so far had not tried. He blames Fëanaro, the great, beloved savior of the Sindar of Mithrim who was all too ready to speak Sindarin; Fingolfin's brother had taught the locals the Noldor could, would adapt easily and happily, when he should have demonstrated the superiority of the letters and words of Valinor from the start. "I am the Princess Nissiel of the Falmari. My people lived in the eastern islands of Mithrim. When Moringotto came, a great darkness came over our city. My father, our king, was slain. We are very thankful that your brother, the High King Fëanor, liberated the lands of Mithrim. We are even more thankful that you, High King Finwë Nolofinwë, liberated our lands of Lammoth. Now my people can return. I am very thankful."

She bows; her attendants bow lower.

"I come with a gift for you, High King." She gestures to a brown haired girl at her right. "My dear friend Herediriel, the greatest of our musicians. She carries the greatest treasure of my people."

There is to Herediriel an air of youth that makes the claim of her great skills dubious, but perhaps she is like Macalaurë – no, Maglor – renowned for musical skills at a very young age. Fingolfin smiles sweetly at the girl. He is much older than the young princess, more experienced in the game of politics. He wonders why she tries so hard to please him, what she hopes for from him.

Herediriel walks forward. For the third time she bows low, holding a carved box out to him. Fingolfin must admit to himself that the craftsmanship is satisfactory. He pronounces a soft, barely audible "thank you, young Herediriel", to emphasise the intimacy of the exchange, and takes the box from her hand.

The gift is not what he expected. For the first time since the beginning of the greetings, Fingolfin feels… not impressed, not really, but almost.

Inside the box is a necklace of gold, the metal woven with a complexity far above anything he expected the backward North Sindar to make. The king touches the necklace that looks like silk only to find cold, mineral harshness. There are no gems, as the noldorin and vanyarin styles would require, nor the pearls favored by the silversmiths of the Teleri, but the weaving of the threads, the complexity of the knots –

This is something a Noldor might have made. This is something Fëanaro might have made.

Despite himself, Fingolfin starts to feel something that he faked for each of his previous encounters: respect; respect for a people who may share the love of craft of the Noldor.

"This is a magnificent gift, Princess Nissiel."

"This is the Heart of Foam, High King. My father and my grand-father before him wore the Heart of Foam. It is the… crown, yes, the crown of the Falmari." She bows. Again. "We of the Falmari wish to return to our lands of Lammoth and the islands. We of the Falmari wish to join your kin, High King Finwë Nolofinwë. We wish to ask for a king. I wish to marry your son, the High Prince Findekano of the Noldor, so your son can wear the Heart of Foam and be king of the Falmari with your protection."

In the blink of an eye the girl transmutes from charming to contemptible. Fingolfin reins in the rage before it reaches his lips and his eyes. Ready as he is to extend the protection of the Eldar to the weaker elves of Beleriand, his sympathy stops where is family begins. But the masks does not crack: he will not let his heart betray him, and would rather refuse her with kinder words.

"I hear your pleas, young Princess," Fingolfin answers. He covers the barbs in his heart with honey. "I cannot speak for my son. It is customary, among the Noldor, that couples should know each other for a very long time before they decide to agree to proper courtship, betrothal and ultimately marriage."

The girl's smile wavers slightly. For one moment doubt clouds her gaze before resolution comes as a wave, her back strengthening with the remnants of her shattered pride.

"I understand. I am sorry if I am hasty, High King Finwë Nolofinwë. We of Beleriand, we live more fast when there is war. I will be happy to know of your son and see if he is pleased by me."

"And I, lovely Princess, am happy to meet you as well," Findekano – Fingon's voice comes from somewhere behind Fingolfin. Fingolfin feels his shoulders tense in shock. Findekano has been here and off for most of the evening. Why did he have to be here now? Fingolfin watches his son step toward the girl. He can imagine him smiling and she would not know Findekano smiles for everyone. When his son takes the girl's hand in his, Fingolfin hopes she does not misunderstand that the gesture is pure courtesy. "My father gathered us all at Ivrin, hoping for many unions and reunions. I would be most pleased if you would tell me of your people's ways. I can tell you of the Noldor in return."

Fingolfin is surprising by intensity of his own scorn. Nissiel bows very softly to his son. She has beautiful eyes, blue as the sea, and hair long and soft, a charming face and she may take well to some of the manners of the court of Tirion; but in all his years, Fingolfin never pictured his boyish first son as married to _anyone_ , as uninterested in the matter of love as he was.

 _I do not require you to marry for political reasons, my son_ , Fingolfin slips into Findekano's mind.

His son turns back to face him, standing too close to her.

"If my King and Father would release me, I would be happy to wander in your company."

Fingolfin answers with a laugh that makes the exchange sound like light banter.

"When my High Prince and Son asks with such a smile, who am I to refuse him? You shall be excused for the evening with my blessing. You are welcome to this feast, Princess Nissiel."

She bows. The repetition of it grates on his nerves.

"I thank you deeply, High King Finwë Nolofinwë. As a testimony of my trust, may the Heart of Foam remain in your keeping for as long as this feast lasts."

As he watches the girl and his son depart, Fingolfin suddenly understands that he never considered giving the necklace back.


	3. Chapter 2: Thingol's warning (Fingolfin)

The matter of Fingon's marriage plagues Fingolfin for most of the evening and night. Laying sleepless in his tent despite his exhaustion, he cannot drag his thoughts away from it.

He wonders why the prospect scares him so. Fingon's youngest brother Turukano married years ago and brought nothing but happiness to his father. Perhaps he is so against it because of Turukano's haunted look, or because Itarillë is growing without a mother. Her aunts are guiding her as she grows up, but it is not the same.

Fingolfin scrapes together a few hours of sleep before dawn. He is awakened early by the shrill songs of birds, and the sounds of his servant Arandil setting up breakfast. Fingolfin gives himself a few minutes of calm, breathing slowly, feeling his body heavy with sleep. Then he sighs and gets up, every tired, tensed muscle protesting.

Instead of Arandil, Fingolfin finds Findekano arranging the table.

"Hello, Dad. Did you sleep well?"

Fingolfin considers lying, but Findekano's strained smile make all pretense useless.

"No, I did not. I am concerned about the matter of your marriage."

"I am not getting married," Findekano answers quickly. "Well not yet, and I will not marry someone I do not like. I am just... being open to considering the idea of being married."

He hands over a slice of bread covered with jam and Fingolfin waves it away. He would rather give this conversation his full attention, and eat once the matter is resolved.

"I do not understand why you would be open to the idea _now_. If you had spoken of this at Turukano's wedding or the birth of Itarillë, that would have been more natural."

"Why?"

"Would you have children with your new wife?"

"I might."

"How could you?" Fingolfin asks. He makes no effort to hide his disapproval. "How can you consider bringing a child into these lands? Into our war? What life do you think a child will find in Beleriand?"

" _Life_ is the word, dad," Findekano responds. "Your answer to all of this is that we should stop living and stand vigil. You spend to much time meditating on my uncle's grave or watching Angband! I understand that is your way, but it is wholly divorced from my own temper."

He keeps on, gestures fast and wide, hands moving to the rhythm of his words.

"I agree with Nissiel and the Sindar. If we are to die then let us live fast! Let us not live in memories! If I am to die, I want to bring with me memories of children, friends, parties and breathtaking sights! I will not allow myself to be dragged into death with a life half lived!"

"What of the child you will drag into this? You say _I will_ ! Do you know how egoistical you sound?"

"Do you know how _patronizing_ you sound?"

"Mind your tongue when you talk to your king!"

Findekano closes up immediately, his body language switching from exuberant to guarded, lips thinning into a line.

"No", Findekano says when Fingolfin would... what? Take back his words? "If you were my king and only my king, we would not be having this conversation. My king would see that it is in our best interest for me to marry a Sinda."

"I do not agree with this statement."

"You do not _want_ to agree with this statement because you feel the Sindar are unworthy of a Prince of the Noldor," Findekano tells him bluntly. "You think no one notices your disdain, and indeed most will not, but _I_ do. Why do you think most of the Sindar of the north followed the Fëanorians? Fëanaro may have been foolish but he was not foolish enough to antagonize them, and for once he used his charm at the right moment. The Fëanorians were outnumbered, they would have got nowhere without the Sindar. Fëanaro could not invade them because he did not have the power to do so. We, on the other hand, are numerous enough that we are _displacing_ them. It might seem to you that we do not have to make them feel needed; to pretend they are inferior and unworthy now that we are strong, but how long are we going to stay strong if we have no children and do not enlist the Sindar to help us? And just how strong are we against Morgoth if we let them leave?"

"You do not need to marry a Sinda to win allies," Fingolfin answers. He can think of a dozen other means to win their hearts. Has he not shown his will to befriend them already? What is the point of the Feast, if not to demonstrate his good will? "If you insist on marrying to strengthen our bonds with others, then marry a noble lady from the Fëanorian faction."

Findekano lets out an explosive laugh.

"A noble lady from the Fëanorian faction? You have so little respect for the Sindar, you would rather have me marry one of those who abandoned us to cross the Ice?"

Fingolfin reminds him that not all of his brother's followers were complicit in the burning of the ships. Did Findekano himself not advocate for forgiveness? Findekano merely shakes his head.

"This is going nowhere. Let us agree to disagree on this matter before we start throwing truly awful things at each other," Findekano sighs. "You should know Maedhros arrived late yesterday and will be seeing you in private to agree on the etiquette of your official first meeting. He will also tell you Aicahendë gave birth to a son just before he left the March. Try not to be judgmental."

Findekano turns away leaving his father flabbergasted. Of course Curufin would be the one with a child, since he was the only one whose wife came to Beleriand and they were a newlywed couple during the Darkening, but the idea of conceiving a child two decades after Fëanaro's death, in the wilderness of the recently settled eastern parts of Beleriand, in times of war and in a barely built fortress sounds ludicrous to Fingolfin.

"The child," Fingolfin asks just as Findekano steps through the doorway, "What did his mother call him?"

"His name is Celebrimbor, Tyelperinquar Curufinwë," Findekano says and leaves.

Fingolfin bites his tongue, but feels the morbidity of the names: one carried by his first grandfather, burnt to death by a fiery demon; the other belonging to his second, drowned by a goddess of the Sea.

Maedhros comes barely announced, entering the tent right after the elf who was meant to warn the High King of his approach, giving Fingolfin no time to compose himself. The prince wears no elaborate clothing, no crown, no circlet; a simple, short wool cloak covers his right side, leaving his left hand uncovered to show his fëanorian signet.

"Uncle."

The words contains everything: good morning, king, kin, how are you, fine, thank you. Ever since Maedhros came back from Angband, the meaningless politeness oiling the gears of civilized conversation have been absent from his private conversations, and in official ones they remain stiff and chilly.

"Nephew," Fingolfin answers. He gestures to the remains of his meal. "Have you had breakfast yet? Arandil can bring more."

"I have not. Do not bother." Maedhros eases himself into the closest chair, his scared face rendered even more expressionless by the hair covering its right side, the one most damaged in Angband. "I heard Fingon is getting married."

"He is not."

"I heard Fingon is considering getting married," Maedhros corrects himself, unconcerned.

"Do we need to have this conversation?" Fingolfin sighs. Talking with Findekano was bad enough, but complicating matters further by discussing it with Maedhros is nightmarish. He wants to tell Maedhros that he should mind his own business, but his nephew would only stare in silence until Fingolfin felt uncomfortable enough to relent.

"What conversation?"

Here it is. The expressionless face with a fixed glance, waiting for Fingolfin to unmask.

This is a game two Noldor can play.

"Please, do share your insights."

"I will not be discussing Fingon's marriage but a meeting between my father and an envoy from Thingol."

The mask almost cracks; this is unexpected, but no less annoying. Why must Fëanaro be dragged into everything? Fingolfin nods silently, agreeing to the subject.

"My father saw fit to send envoys to the people of Beleriand. Most answered with hope, admiration and offers of friendship because our arrival freed western Beleriand. Thingol's deputy, however, addressed my father with the patronizing tone of someone who knows better and would give advices to a young newcomer. Because of his tone and the content of the message, and because we found friendlier people in North Beleriand, my father chose to ignore Thingol's advice and it was not discussed thereafter."

Fingolfin wonders how the matter related to Fingon; opening the discussion with the marriage cannot have been innocent, unless Maedhros is just trying to unnerve him, as a way to remind his uncle that he is without a crown, but not without power.

"Thingol proposed an alliance with my father against Angband."

"I was unaware such an alliance had been made."

"Very few people knew of the offer. My father, myself, my brothers, some at Thingol court, I suppose. My father refused. You find his refusal absurd, don't you? What was Fëanaro thinking, refusing to ally with the greatest power in Beleriand? Did he refuse because Thingol vexed him?"

Fingolfin does not give Maedhros the pleasure of answering his rhetorical questions.

"No. Thingol, in his message, warned my father. The inhabitants of North Beleriand, he said, are untrustworthy. The worst of them are servants of Angband, wheareas the best are tainted, marred in some way. King Fëanaro, if he wishes to avenge his father, may remain in North Beleriand. His Noldor should purge these lands of the corrupted locals first. Do not talk with the Falmari of the Islands, the Mithrim of the mainland, the Orodrim from the slopes of the northern ranges and countless other tribes. Servants of Angband, all of them."

All of this, Maedhros explains flatly, not clarifying where the Sindar of the North were supposed to go, or if Thingol had expected Fëanaro would simply kill them.

"My father, however, believed himself a friend of the North Sindar already. They showed us what was edible and what was not, they helped us scout the land and settle. Our talks with the Mithrim were fresh and new, a welcome change after valinorean politics and everything that happened in Aman. It was like starting a new life with them. My father spoke of friendship and solidarity: we came for revenge, we will save each other, we will live and fight and die together. Thingol, on the other hand... he was not only patronizing, he was Olwë's brother and married to a Maia, and safely hidden in his lands. So my father sent the messenger away and told Thingol he would be perfectly fine with his new friends and Thingol's advice was not required nor welcomed."

Fingolfin knows Maedhros is finished when he reaches for an apple and calmly starts to eat.

"So you came to tell me Findekano should not marry Nissiel because she is a spy from Angband?"

"No," Maedhros answers after excruciatingly long seconds spent chewing his apple in uncomfortable silence. "I came to tell you _Thingol_ believes Nissiel's people are spies from Angband."

"Do you believe him?"

"I have no proofs to build an educated opinion on. Unlike Thingol, Lord Cirdan welcomed the refugees of the Falmari. As for the Mithrim who followed me East, they have given me no reason to distrust them. Yet."

"Do you?"

"Trust them? No. But I do not trust you either. Are you untrustworthy?"

"Will you believe me if I say I am not?"

"Absolutely not. As I said, I do not trust you." The left corner of his mouth trembles slightly. This is the closest Maedhros ever comes to a smile. "My father trusted them. He was ambushed and died. I trusted them. I was ambushed and almost died. You arrived in Beleriand. Your troops were ambushed and your son died. But I do not know if Thingol is right. Nissiel may or may not be trustworthy."

"What are you going to do about this?" Maedhros merely raises an eyebrow, as if he hasn't already made his mind. Fingolfin may be king and Findekano's father, but he knows Maedhros will do whatever he wants. "Do not pretend you will stand aside while your favorite cousin courts a girl who may be a spy."

"If the High King wishes for my help, I can make enquiries and have her watched.

Fingolfin considers the offer, the obvious trap. Maedhros will have her followed with or without Fingolfin's agreement, but by asking for orders he drags his uncle into his plot. Should Maedhros get caught by Findekano, they will share the responsibility, and Fingolfin will be unable to reprimand him for spying on his heir.

Nonetheless, the trap is tempting. Fingolfin does not trust Maedhros, but he believes without a doubt that his nephew wishes Findekano well. The question is whether Maedhros' good intentions can lead to anything but paranoia and diplomatic failure.

"If your spies are caught, the Sindar will be rightfully scandalized."

"I know," Maedhros answers with the calm and stillness of a windless lake.

Fingolfin wears the crown and hosts the Feast, and will be blamed first.

"Do it."

Maedhros nods and stands up to leave.

"I shall come to you formally with my followers at midday. Maglor will be there. My uncle Naswë came with us, but do not expect him to come and give his respects."

"I think I will survive without them."

Naswë is Miriel's brother. His disdain and hatred for the children of Indis is legendary. The less Fingolfin sees of him, the better.

"As I expected," Maedhros agrees. "I shall see you then."

"By the way," Fingolfin says as Maedhros moves to leave, "congratulation on the birth of your nephew."

"Thank you," Maedhros answers, the flap of the tent muffling the flat words.


	4. Chapter 3 The Princess of Foam (Nissiel)

Pretty dresses were something Nissiel had always taken for granted. Now, she tries to choose between her blue, grey and green dresses, and it seems like her life hangs in the balance. The blue dress is the best one, with its beautiful embroideries; the fur is still thick, though not as soft as it used to, and she was able to cover the most damaged embroideries with pearls gifted from Cirdan, but she wore the blue dress yesterday and fears Fingolfin will not be impressed if he sees her wearing it twice in a row. He might get the wrong impression: that the Falmari are too poor to properly dress their princess.

That would, if Nissiel is honest, be a correct assessment of their situation.

The green dress used to be beautiful, and can still be in the dark, but the light of the sun will show the the seams are worn. The grey dress still looks quite new but makes her look like the cute little girl she was when she left the islands at the strait of Losgar. She needs to look like a woman, someone Fingon can appreciate as a wife, not like his little sister.

"Do you think the grey dress would cut it if I added a sexy hairstyle?"

Herediriel snorts. Her own hair is always sort of sloppy, but she is an artist of humble background. No one expects her to be as polished as the princess or the queen, as long as her voice remains birdlike and her fingers swift and precise.

"What do you mean by _sexy hairstyle_?"

"Something more… revealing? Perhaps? I could tie my hair up so the nape of my neck is showing?"

Nissiel hates how young her voice sounds. She should sound like a _queen_.

"Why not?" Herediriel plucks absently the cords of her three-corded lute.

"You are not helping."

"I am not helping because King Coldfish is going to find whatever you do ugly or inferior or inappropriate, no matter the amount of effort you put into it." Nissiel feels her belly clench. She, too, fears that Fingolfin feels no love for her people, but to admit that to herself means that they have _lost_ already. "I am not helping because I do not think you need to marry one of the creepy invaders who stole our lands."

"Do not speak like that," the princess orders. Her eyes move instinctively to the flap of their tent. Oiled leather does nothing to stop sound. "They did not invade anything because we weren't there to be invaded in the first place!"

Herediriel plucks one of the strings of the lute. The note sounds false and wrong; she plucks the string one, two, three times, and does not grace her princess with another answer, the sound expressing all too well her opinion on the matter.

"Can you at least help me with the hairstyle?" Nissiel's hair slides from her fingers like water, symmetry and proper braiding escaping her best efforts. "Please?"

The awful sound rings twice before Herediriel puts the instrument away.

"You know," she chuckles as her hands move to pull up Nissiel's hair, "I wonder what a sexy Noldorin hairstyle is supposed to look like. They pull their hair so tight, it's a wonder it's attached to their heads. You should not dress your hair like theirs. It is too soft and beautiful to be tortured that way."

Nissiel breathes deeply and tries to ignore her friend and the cramps in her belly. How do you please a Noldo? How to look beautiful to his critical eyes?

She does not know, but it is imperative that she succeeds, lest her people are forced to becomebeggars.

She meets Fingon in the great glade where Fingolfin welcomes his guests, the grey dress belted tight around her waist, her hair braided so high and tight her head hurts from the pulling. She finds him most dashing: hair dark as coal, its darkness enhanced by the shine of the golden ribbons woven into the braids; broad shoulders and strong arms; but first and foremost, his eyes, eyes as blue as the sky when the Sun is risen high. Herediriel finds the Light in the Noldor's eyes unsettling; Nissiel wants to find it beautiful instead. He is handsome in the late morning light, the sun giving his skin a healthy glow.

"They are a gift from my cousin," Fingon explains, catching how Nissiel's eyes dart to his ribbons. With an easy smile and fluid gesture, he slips a heavy braid from his back to show the worn fabric. Nissiel likes how he handles the old things as if they were treasures; as if it didn't matter that, when looked close, is doesn't matter that the value is none, as long they still keep their meaning.

"My mother made this dress for herself when she was my age. I am not as beautiful as she was – my mother was a great beauty! But when I wear this dress, I feel I look at least half as beautiful as her."

"Your mother must have been gorgeous, then, for your beauty is nothing to be ashamed of."

Fingon has a way of smiling with his lips and voice both that sends shivers through Nissiel's body; she remembers, faintly, that she is not there to giggle and be seduced: she is there to be a _woman_ , not a girl, and to do the seducing. Her back aches with the weight of her duty. But this is good, at least, because she finds Fingon pleasant, and marrying him may not be such a chore.

"My favorite cousin," Fingon breaths when the Fëanorian delegation enters the clearing, his voice as warm as a summer day. "Maedhros, High Prince of the Noldor, of the House of Fëanor."

If Fingon is summer, then his cousin is winter. There is no mistaking Maedhros Fëanorion for anyone else. The Noldor stand tall, and he taller than all; they are fair of skin, and he fairer, his complexion pale as marble. His hair hangs free down his back, a trail of blood swallowed into the folds of his crimson cloak, crowning a stunningly beautiful profile, the perfection of a straight nose dipping to the fullness of his lips and a perfectly chiseled jawline.

Until he turns to look at Fingon; then the spell of beauty turns into one of horror: his right side, barely visible under the curtain of red hair, is a landscape of burns and scars, not a single inch of skin fair to look at; and his eyes, grey and cold, carry in them a fire that runs colder than ice. Maedhros does not stop, merely nodding to his cousin, and soon the horrific face is replaced by the heavenly profile.

"His brother, Prince Maglor the Singer," Fingon's voice pulls Nissiel out of her trance. Fingon gives her three more names before Maedhros stops in front of Fingolfin. Of the Fëanorian delegation, he is the only one to bow, but Nissiel cannot say if this is respectful or meant as an insult or something. She knows there are troubles among the Noldor, but they keep their feuds close to their chest and speak very fast in quenya. The High King and the High Prince exchange greetings and polite words, as empty as the wind. "Maglor looks really serious at present, but you have to hear him drunk to…"

Prince Maglor turns oh-so-slightly toward them. Not enough to glare, but enough to impart that Fingon's words have not gone unnoticed. Maedhros wears no circlet, but Maglor does and the white gems glitter with the movement. Nissiel's cheeks run hot. Fingon merely smiles in amusement.

"Do you really want to marry into this family?" Herediriel asks once they return to their tents, many hours after their first meeting with the Fëanorian princes. "I do not want to sound negative…"

"I am quite sure negativity is exactly what you are aiming for," Nissiel hisses. She sat on her camp bed as soon as they entered and set on massaging her sore feet, her best shoes being unsuited for wandering at leisure in the woods.

Herediriel ignores her, pacing lazily.

"… but I have the feeling everyone hates everyone in this family."

"I do not."

"You should stop staringat your precious Fingon for ten seconds, just long enough to see the freezing look he got from Maglor when he tried to invite him to spend the evening with… what was is name? Finrod. Then Maglor looked even more murderous when Maedhros decided to grab Fingon to go off to somewhere _very far away_ from his brother in the middle of the conversation."

"Even if they have family problems, that's none of your business."

The pacing stops.

"On the contrary. If anything happens between you and Fingon, then their problems will become your problems."

"I will help Fingon to solve them." But her chest feels tight. Fingon has so many relativess, all of them overwhelming in one way or another; Finrod with the sheer light radiating from every inch of skin, Maedhros with his daunting coldness and Fingolfin, whose heavy stares weighs heave as a mountain! All of them seem so much bigger than she is. "He will help us solve our own problems too."

"I am sure our own problems would be easily solved if we sailed south and then east. Solving them by binding them to more problems isn't…"

" _I said that Fingon will solve our problems!_ "

Why must Herediriel always be so difficult? Why cannot she listen to her princess and trust her? Why cannot she understand that Nissiel will not accept the loss of their home, their treasures and their former power? Nissiel's fingers clench on her skirt. Herediriel is her friend. If her friend does not see her as her queen, then who will?

"Leave me. Your pacing keeps me from thinking. I will solve this, you will see."

Herediriel throws her a petulant look, but in the end she leaves without comments. Distant sounds of the Feast trickle through the leather of their tent. Nissiel lets her shoulders sag forward and puts her head in her hands. She cannot let Herediriel's criticisms touch her. She must be sure of at least one thing, cannot doubt everything; she cannot doubt that the Falmari are not done for. Once, they were the most powerful tribe in Hithlum. Her father would never settle for less. He would understand.

She feels the mattress sink at her left and starts, anger rising from vulnerability, but –

But the expected face of Herediriel is not there; it is, in fact, no face at all.

The Shadow watches her in the shape of a man, his visage covered by a lipless mask of ivory. Her blue eyes dive straight into the steel grey of his and she remains still, a doe captured by fear, her voice silenced by the single finger he holds where his mouth should be.

"A pleasant evening, Princess."

The finger slips down to settle on her hand, the leather cool against her skin.

"I am pleased to find you safe and well. You have grown in beauty since our last meeting. In this attire, I find the likeness to your mother to be… striking."

Nissiel shivers. The last time she saw the Shadow, she was a child and her mother had walked into the waves.

"Lord," she starts with a voice strangled by the memory. "Lord, I –"

"Shh, child. Do not fear. I am not cross, and neither is the Holy Mother. We wish for you to be happy and successful. The Mother blesses you and Prince Fingon."

"She does?"

The relief is as indescribable as Nissiel's astonishment.

"Have you said your prayers these past years?"

"No, not… not since the Darkness came to Losgar."

He withdraws his hand from hers and rises, soundless, a mere silhouette of black silk and leather that does not reflect light, and hair white as bone braided in knots of Power.

"We have not abandoned you, Princess. You shall renew your faith and the Mother shall grant you your wish. She shall grant you Fingon's love and in time we shall have peace."

"Lord," she whimpers, "Lord, I thought you would be angry at us… I thought you would…"

"You believed I would punish you?" His fingers trail on each and every possession she owns. She is sure he can see her, even when his back is turned; he would kill her in the blink of an eye if he wished so. "Have we not always rewarded your people's loyalty?"

"Y-yes, Lord, always…"

"Are you not loyal, Princess Nissiel?"

"We are, Lord. We are. I swear, when I gave away the Heart of Waves…"

"Do not worry. It pleases my masters that the High King keeps the Heart." The ivory mask turns to her. Featureless; unreadable, the eyes blank and empty. "We shall have peace with Fingolfin, in time, and we wish for our dear friends of the Islands to stand by his side when he bends the knee to the true Gods of Beleriand."

Nissiel wishes she had the courage to ask what the Gods were doing when the Darkness came upon her Islands and devoured her father. Where was the protection of the Great Smith and the Holy Mother then?

She says nothing. The last time a Queen of the Falmari contradicted the Shadow, she walked into the waves.

"I am pleased. I can see in your eyes that you did not wish to betray us," that you are too afraid to betray us, "so I will grant you the help of the Mother. Close your eyes."

She obeys. The last time a King of the Falmari contradicted the Shadow…

"Hold your hands, palms up. I carry gifts for you, beautiful princess."

She obeys, half expecting some cruel game, but all she feels is something soft, linen perhaps, light and small, in the palm of her right hand.

"This, the Mother offers you for Fingon. The False Gods of Valinor have ensured that their youngest pets lack what they believe is sinful lust. Ensure that Fingon sleeps with this under his mattress, and the spells of the False Gods shall dissolve. Do not, and Fingon shall never see you, or any other woman as desirable. This," he adds, and another offering falls into her left hand, "you shall hide in Fingolfin's tent. It will lessen the curse of disdain and scorn, and open his eyes to the many qualities of your people."

"Lord – "

"I am not finished." She feels the gloves brushing the length of her thin, fragile fingers. "Always remember, Nissiel,that the game you chose to play is a game you cannot win without my help. The False Gods have spells of their own, spells tightly woven around Fingon and Fingolfin both. Refuse my help and you will be nothing but servants to them. Allow me to help you as I always helped your family and you shall have your love, happiness, children and treasures aplenty. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do, Lord," and she does, because when he speaks of disdain the image of Fingolfin's scowl fills her head, and how could she not see by herself how little respect shows in his eyes?

"I shall have your oath of fealty. I shall be your most precious secret, Nissiel, or your blood will never run between your tighs again. The Mother will withdraw her gifts of sleep and dream. Swear."

"I s-swear. I swear, Lord, I will say nothing."

The tip of his fingers withdraw from her skin, the slowness deliberate, until she stands in silence with her hands opened and full, not daring to move or breath. When she finally summons the will to open her eyes, the Shadow is gone. Nissiel would almost dismiss the meeting as a dream if not for the two, small puppets in her hands, crude representations of an elf swaddled in a shroud and bound with intricate knots. Her hands tremble so hard she almost drops Fingon's puppet.

Her lids close on eyes full of tears, wishing she had listened and sailed south and east.


	5. Chapter 4: Thief (Fingolfin)

It all starts with a dinner with the whole family, that turns into a dinner with himself.

Fingolfin cannot pinpoint the moment when the perfectly civil meal derails. He is busy discussing the new settlements in Himring and Himlad when Galadriel and Maglor spring from their chair and start shouting at each other, the words traitors flung like stones from a sling over the half eaten duck; Turgon takes his leaves with Idril before the shouting end with Galadriel marching out, followed by her brothers, Finrod trailing behind them with an air of supreme annoyance that belie his soothing words.

At the end of the fight Fingolfin finds himself alone at the table with Maedhros who, completely unfazed, has moved on the subject of breeding horses; the conversation grows tedious by the time Fingon comes back.

"I am sorry, dad. Turgon says the shouting upset Idril, I have no idea where Aredhel is and all I got from Finrod was a look of despair. When I left him, he was trying to convince his siblings that raiding Maglor's tent to steal his crown is uncalled for."

The laugh bursting forth from Maedhros' throat sounds more like a bark than anything that should come out the mouth of an elf.

"Do not worry yourself, Fingon. If they manage to do it, they can keep it for all I care. My brother insists on wearing the thing. He is neither king nor regent. He does not deserve a crown."

"If I remember right," Fingolfin says, knowing very well that he is not mistaken, "this circlet was crafted by your father for Maglor's wedding."

"Yes. Well, I will not swear an Oath over it."

Fingon scowls and says, with more honesty than Fingolfin would have dared in this situation: "This is not funny, Maedhros. I do not think Maglor would laugh and I do not think your father would have appreciated either."

"Well my father is _dead_ ," Maedhros erupts. "He is fucking _dead_! Did you not hear the song? _He swore and he died and he went in smoke_. Nobody needs to care anymore about what he would have appreciated because _we do not need to care_."

"This conversation is inappropriate." And, in Fingolfin's opinion, Maedhros is speaking far too loudly.

"Why? Because you do not want to admit that the all-powerful Fëanor is still poisoning _your_ existence, your Highness?"

"What I think or want is pointless, High Prince. I shall not have a son denigrate his father in front of me, nor a prince denigrate the words of our former High King."

"It is, certainly, easier to admit that he was your King now that he is too deceased to order you around." Maedhros pushes back his chair and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. More than his callous words or the strange glint in his furious eyes, it is this gesture that worries Fingolfin. Maedhros was never crude, and he was never so casually unclean. "Now if you do not mind, I will leave you to dine with my father's ghost. See if you appreciate his conversation and good night to you both."

Maedhros almost bumps into Fingon as he leaves, and that is telling too. Fingolfin breaths a small "go" to his son. As much as he thirsts for his children's companionship, he worries more about his nephew than himself. Fingon nods silently and disappears.

Alone, in silence, Fingolfin exhales a long breath and sags in his chair. Some part of him, a part he often refuses to acknowledge, whispers that Maedhros is right. Fëanaro has been a constant presence over his life, a treasure, a threat, and unreachable piece of paradise who would taunt him with crumbs of affection and sharp claws. Even in Formenos his shadow had tainted Fingolfin's life, a black blot on his regency; and now that he is dead, his legend, his oath, his sons still hoover to remind everyone that _he_ brought them to Beleriand.

Fingolfin promised to follow, though he promised before Fëanaro abandoned him, before he received like a knife in the heart the ultimate proof that even after their father's death, his brother would refuse him. And now he still following and feels like he forever will.

 _Thief_.

The voice comes out of nowhere; the first time, Fingolfin thinks he imagined it, the word a mere emanation of his dark musing, but…

 _Thief_.

His lids fly open.

 _Thief_.

And his stare dives straight into Fëanaro's.


	6. Chapter 5: The Bard (Fingolfin)

By the time Fingolfin decides Fëanaro was never there, he has reached the part of the Pools favored by the Avari. A tall elf covered in burns and caked blood would have attracted his fair share of attention, but Fëanaro did _not_. His mocking voice taunted Fingolfin, drawing him out of his tent; the floating remnants of a crimson cloak led him, but each and every turn brought him to yet another congregation of unaware party-goers. The part of him that is the King smiled and exchanged greetings and laughed to the drunken, slurred jokes in Sindarin and Quenya; the part of him that is Fëanaro's brother trembled with anger and anticipation.

And now the laughing and taunting and calls of _Thief_ are gone, and Fingolfin is not entirely sure where he is; only that he stepped into a clearing full of people dancing half naked to the shrill sound of flutes and maddening rhythm of drums. One woman catches his arm, her bare breasts brushing against his sleeve. Through sheer strength of will Fingolfin, does not recoil. His smile remains placid, his tone calm as he makes excuses they do not understand. Someone starts chanting his name, distorting the pronunciation, and soon they drag him to sit with them on a coarse carpet. A flock of gesticulating Avari assails him, chattering in their inaudible bird-like language.

One of them throw into his face a plate full of things that looks edible. Or, at least, Fingolfin thinks they are edible; he changes his mind as soon as his teeth dive into the first meat-roll and his mouth starts to burn, bringing tears to his eyes. He coughs, the Avari laugh, and he thinks of strangling them.

"You should try this one," a barbarian dressed in the modest sindarin style unexpectedly advices. Fingolfin eyes him with open disbelief: his is the most fëanorian-compliant Quenya Fingolfin ever heard from a native. The elf sits at his right with ease. "Try. Paired with goat milk, it does wonders to soothe the burn."

The advice is followed with the distrust of a cat burnt once, but the Sinda's words prove true. The burn recedes, followed by pleasant numbness. Fingolfin offers his thanks; he is twice thankful when the elf shares a few words with the Avari that makes them withdraw and go back to their disarticulated dancing.

"What did you say to them?"

"Merely that you appreciated the gift and were not offended." A faint smile blossoms; Fingolfin wonders if he has not met the elf before. There is, to him, the feeling of a cherished memory, faded but not entirely forgotten, like a beloved word waiting at the tip of the tongue. "You looked like Finwë's wrath born again. A most terrifying sight for those who do not know of the highly flammable noldorin temper."

"By the way you master our language, I assume that you are acquainted with the _fëanorian_ temper."

"I admit that I know more of them than I know of you," the stranger concedes easily, "but I find them no fierier than their grand-father. I have witnessed Finwë's speeches when he urged us to leave Kuivienen; I have listened to his song of power when he dueled Ahyar the Sorcerer, and many other tribe leaders of old who would have prevented his March, and saw his rage on more than one occasion."

The stranger turns to pick at the food. The roaring campfires draw a line of gold-red out of a regal profile. Fingolfin studies the face, wondering again where they met; how the straight nose, dark hair, the high cheekbones and thin lips and voice can be so familiar…

"Are you related to my father?"

The stranger hands over a plate. The king accepts tit out of politeness, hoping the selected delicacies are not going to put his face on fire.

"Through my mother. This is a connection I have not considered for… a very long time." Fingolfin opts for a greenish round fritter from, listening closely to the elf's flowing voice. By the way he rhythms into every word and sentence, it is easy to guess that he is a singer. "I am called Faelin in these lands, born in Kuivienen under the name Fayalino."

The food is not only edible but surprisingly good.

"I was born under the father-name Finwion, then Nolofinwë, and received during my fifth year the mother-name Aracano. My people later granted me the surname of Finwë Nolofinwë, then translated into Fingolfin."

"Well met, _cousin_."

The honeyed words seems to roll on his tongue with warmth and softness, in a way that screams so much of his father that Fingolfin cannot help but let the heat seep into his bones.

"I did not know I had family among the Sindar," he admits, in a tone that conveys that the surprise is welcomed.

"I fear I am no Sinda," Faelin corrects. "I am from the Elkelli east of the mountains. My family started the Voyage and then fell in love with the land. You will meet few of us in Beleriand. The land was dangerous even before Moringotto came."

They move to talking about the Avari dances and music, Faelin explaining the meaning behind the gestures and laughing at Fingolfin's outrage when it turns out he stumbled in the middle of some fertility feast, explaining why the music sounds so out of tune and how Fingolfin's ear will grow accustomed to the new sounds of Beleriand and, who knows, may even find them beautiful one day; explaining how fascinating it is that the Noldor have so many words for _gold_ and _silver_ and _love_ but so little for _pain_ and _fear_ and _darkness_. At some point Fingolfin tastes some heavily alcoholic milk and wonders who in Mandos puts alcohol in this kind of beverage.

Half an hour later, he is leaning heavily on his smaller cousin's shoulder, wondering if this is how Findekano felt when he met Maedhros: the feeling of _attunement_ and _belonging_ ; wondering if what he feels is for Faelin himself, or a desperate longing for Finwë. They stop by one of the numerous springs of Irvin, its song soothing after the wild drums and flutes of the Avarin feast, and the cold water on his face reminds Fingolfin that he is leaning on a stranger and should stop making a fool of himself.

"How many languages do you speak?"

He tries to sound as clear as possible as he disengages himself from Faelin to dip his hands in water, but hears nothing but clumsily intoned words.

"Many," Faelin answers. He leans against a tree, fixing the water with an absent gaze. "The only ones I am not fluent in, as far as Beleriand is concerned, are Kuzdul and the Uruk dialects, save for a bit of the low kind they have east of the mountains. Both people have a taboo about sharing their "holy tongue" and, well… let us say I never got the nerves to go to Angamando itself to ask if they could please teach me."

"A wise decision," Fingolfin says after a low chuckle. "I could use your talents as a translator."

"If the King wishes for my help, I will oblige. Tomorrow evening, if you do not mind? I fear I may need to sleep a fair share of the day. I drank less than you did, but I do not have your valinorean constitution."

Fingolfin emits an undignified groan.

"If only I could sleep all day."

"Alas," Fealin answers with great seriousness, "I am afraid early mornings are the woes of kings."

"Do not tease me," Fingolfin warns as he gets back on his feet. "I will expect you by mid-afternoon."

For the first time, the bard looks annoyed by Fingolfin's answer, or perhaps by the way his voice, out of habit, turned the demand into an order. He ultimately accepts with a small bow – the first since they met. He breathes a _good night_ that carries to Fingolfin with the fragility of a butterfly, yet is as audible as a thunder strike; a caress of sounds to belie the anger that flashed, briefly, in the steel grey eyes.


End file.
